


A Pair of Dull Scissors in the Yellow Light

by ElloPoppet



Category: Marvel, The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Angst, Bathing/Washing, Bonding, Bruce Banner Feels, Bruce Banner Needs a Hug, Bucky Barnes Feels, Facial Shaving, First Kiss, Fluff, Haircuts, Healing, Homelessness, Hurt Bucky Barnes, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Mutual Pining, Not Canon Compliant, POV Alternating, Protectiveness, Running Away, Sharing a Bed, Trauma
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-04
Updated: 2019-07-05
Packaged: 2020-06-03 18:35:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,640
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19469767
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ElloPoppet/pseuds/ElloPoppet
Summary: Just as he had done every night for the last four months, Bruce dreamed of Bucky.Bruce wasn’t angry; he was so incredibly sorry that he could hardlybreathewith it.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Hiiiiiiiiiiiiiii.
> 
> Welcome to rarepair Hell. I'll be your host for the evening. 
> 
> I've tagged this with the warning of depictions of violence. It involves a severe accidental injury to Bucky's arm/shoulder and includes some graphic description, but it is not extensive past the beginning of the fic. Better safe than sorry regarding tagging though!
> 
> It's a rough start, emotionally, but I'm a firm believer in always having a happy ending :)
> 
> The title is from the song "Samson" by Regina Spektor.
> 
> Thank you and I hope you enjoy!
> 
> -EP

Just as he had done every night for the last four months, Bruce dreamed of Bucky.

The dreams were getting further and further away from his conscious memory of the day it had happened, the day that Bruce’s worst fear had reared its ugly head into reality. Rather than being sharp and in focus as they had been in the beginning, the dreams were now blurry and dulled, a sepia quality to them that tasted like opium on the back of Bruce’s tongue when he woke. 

The sounds, however, remained the same. Bruce doubted that the day would come when he would be able to scrub the sound of Bucky’s screams out of his mind completely, the grinding and ripping of Bucky’s prosthetic being torn from his socket overlaying those screams in perfect clarity. The weight of the arm in Hulk’s hand and the thick, metal-can scent of Bucky’s blood were ingrained in Bruce’s head, though he himself hadn’t made the choice to cause such horrific pain and mutilation. 

It hadn’t been a conscious choice on Hulk’s part, either. It had taken many weeks for Bruce to come to terms with that, battling within himself. It had been the middle of battle, surrounded by a commune of robots and bionic droids that had flooded the streets of Hells’ Kitchen. Hulk had been doing what he did best; tearing, shredding, smashing anything that threatened the livelihood of his friends, of his family. Bucky’s arm looked so similar, and Bucky had gotten so close so suddenly that it had simply...happened. 

Bruce knew that it was eating Hulk alive, that the other guy had realized his grave mistake immediately. It was evident in how quickly Hulk ran away, scurried within their body, shrinking so quickly that Bruce felt whiplash before realizing what had happened. And there he stood, Bruce, with all of his flesh exposed, the heavy weight of Bucky’s prosthetic and most of his shoulder in Bruce’s hands, Bucky’s blood unbelievably red and sticky in every place where it stained Bruce’s skin. 

Most of what happened directly after had been erased from Bruce’s memory. He never dreamt of how he had first made sure that someone had gotten to Bucky (Steve and Tony were on him immediately, Steve barking harried orders to the others over the comms and Tony gathering Bucky into his arms and into the air). He never dreamed of how he vomited when Steve had laid a hand on his back and asked if he was okay. He never dreamed of how he ran, blindly and sick down to his marrow, until he was somewhere he didn’t recognize. 

If he and Hulk had something in common, it was that they defaulted to running and hiding. The monster and the man. _Cowards_. 

*

In the last four months, Bruce had barely eaten. He had barely slept. He hadn’t bathed, choosing instead to crawl into a river at night, one that ran through a local park. He slept beneath the park benches at night, curled up in the discarded clothing that he had snatched from a dumpster That Day. During the day he would wander, watch the birds and the people from behind trees or, if he was feeling particularly lonely, from his spot atop one of the benches. He knew his smell must have been rancid at that point, but it didn’t matter much to him. It kept others from getting too close. His mass of matted curls and the scraggly beard helped him remain unrecognized, which was all he really wanted in the world. 

Even Hulk left him alone. Bruce figured that it was because the spikes of rage that he experienced every day were underlined with hurt, pain, and sorrow. Bruce wasn’t angry; he was so incredibly sorry that he could hardly _breathe_ with it. 

In the middle of November, it started to snow. It wasn’t the light, barely-there first snowfall that Bruce knew existed in other places. No, this was New York. The snow fell fast and it fell heavy, the fluffy flakes piling onto one another in quick succession. The holes in Bruce’s shoes provided no protection, and he wondered what would happen if his entire body were to succumb to frostbite. Would Hulk let go of them, then?

Knowing the answer and fatigued from the weight of burden and guilt, Bruce turned in the direction of the Avenger’s Tower. It was far, too far to see even in the distance, and Bruce knew that he would be trudging through the snow for most of the day and night to get back to the place he once considered home. 

He didn’t know if he would be considered family after what he had done to one of their own, and so Bruce didn’t dare to let himself think that he was returning home. He swallowed down the notion, took a deep breath of icy air into his lungs, and took a step forward. 

*

“Sergeant Barnes, Doctor Banner is approaching the West underground elevators.”

Bucky’s eyes sprang open, devoid of any indication that he had been sleeping just a second before. The burst of adrenaline at Friday’s announcement flooded his system, dumping into his veins with a dizzying force. His head spun as he sat quickly, placing his feet on the floor and choosing to sit on the edge of his bed and simply breathe for a beat or two before standing. He went through the motions of pulling on a pair of sweats and a black tank top, not bothering to look for socks or shoes. His bare feet made barely any noise as he strode through his apartment in the dark, pulling his loose-hanging hair into a quick bun. 

Bucky winced slightly at the pulling tug of his new prosthetic at the base of his collarbone. The vibranium connector plate was placed much further into his body than the previous one had been, most of the structure of his shoulder socket having been unsalvageable, even with the serum trying its damnedest to repair what was no longer there. The Stark prosthetic was great; flexible and lightweight, made of some alloy that Bucky couldn’t pronounce and plated with vibranium that the Princess had been kind enough to bring over. Shuri had hand-delivered the stuff, pigged out with Bucky on ice-cream and made him watch hours of Vines before heading back to Wakanda. It had been a good day.

Regardless, Bucky was still learning how to move with his new arm and shoulder, which came with unexpected twinges, pulls, and pinches at times. Nothing worse than with his other models, simply different. New. An evolution, part of Bucky’s ever-changing body. He was adapting, as he always had and always would.

What hurt far worse was the brash, hollow absence within the Tower over the last few months. Bucky was chronically aware of the space in every room that should have been filled with Bruce and was no longer. It filled him with dread and a deeper ache that he couldn’t place whenever he walked into the lab, visited the greenhouse on top of the roof, or caught the scent of tea or curry carrying in the air. He missed Bruce’s company viciously, missed the calming blanket of Bruce’s voice, reminders to breathe. Missed Bruce answering all of his questions in the lab whenever Bucky snuck down there for peace and quiet, or simply because he wanted to be near Bruce. Bucky’s ears were on constant alert for Bruce’s laugh, rare but glorious when on display. 

It had only taken two weeks of Bruce being MIA for Bucky to request an alert from Friday if he came within the vicinity of the Tower. Bucky had asked that nobody else be alerted. Friday had fought with him on that one, stated that she could not override Tony’s protocols. It had annoyed Bucky, but he understood. The following morning, Friday informed him that protocols had been changed and that Bucky and Bucky alone would be made aware if Bruce was returning to the Tower. Tony hadn’t said a word about it but had thrown Bucky a wink later in the morning, and Bucky’s icy disposition toward the guy banging his best friend thawed a little at that moment. 

Months had passed without a word. Tony and Steve assured Bucky that they could locate Bruce in a second if they wanted, given that Bruce had helped develop a gamma signature tracker for them years ago that Tony kept hidden away in his garage somewhere. Bucky struggled every day with their decision to let Bruce return on his own. They would be notified, they promised, if something “bad” happened. 

Bucky wasn’t exactly thrilled at the prospect of not knowing where Bruce was unless he was found dead. It led to long nights and very little sleep, even less than usual, and by the time that Friday woke Bucky with the alert that he had given up on ever receiving, Bucky was tired to his core. 

He didn’t let it stop him, though, because Bruce was there. He’d come back. 

Bruce was finally _home_. 

*

Bruce could have laughed at the injustice of it all when he saw that it was Bucky standing on the other side of the secure elevator door. He had allowed himself a moment of rejoicing when his thumbprint and retinal scans had allowed him access to the elevator; even if they hated him, at the very least they hadn’t removed his clearance. 

It had to mean something. 

The moment burst wide open, the joy dribbling out and being rapidly replaced with icy fear and chilling guilt as Bruce simply stood where he was, leaning against the side of the elevator. He eyed Bucky wearily; he felt frail and slow, his tongue feeling three sizes too big, but he was still sharp enough to take in minute details of Bucky’s new prosthetic. It gleamed in the overhead lights, a deep matte gunmetal gray and it just kept going as Bruce traced it with his eyes. Above where his shoulder socket should be, reaching the base of Bucky’s throat and covering the beginning of his collar bone, easy to view as it was unhidden by Bucky’s clothes. 

Otherwise, Bucky looked nearly as effervescent as Bruce remembered him to be. His hair was longer (pulled up, but Bruce could tell by the wayward locks that hung loosely on the right side of Bucky’s face), his waist still trim, body built like the soldier he had always been. The only difference was that Bucky looked tired. 

No. Not just tired, like he had had a long day. Bucky looked like he was running on empty. 

Yet somehow, an unbidden grin reached the corners of Bucky’s youthful eyes, his teeth biting down on his lower lip. Bruce tracked it as though he had never left, as though no time had passed since the last moment he had caught himself tracking the movements of Bucky’s mouth from across the room. 

“You’re home,” Bucky breathed, his voice shattering the silence of the witching hour. 

“I’m sorry,” was all Bruce could manage, and it was a scratchy sound, his throat sandpaper tough from disuse. He was dehydrated, he knew, and yet his tears wet his cheeks, frozen from his hike back to the Tower. 

“I’m so sorry.”

And Bruce wouldn’t know it until later that Bucky managed to catch him as he fell unconscious to the ground. 

*

“You with me, Banner? Bruce?” 

It was light swimming through wet cement as Bruce resurfaced, first aware of the sound of Bucky’s voice before becoming flooded with other input. Warmth, something soft beneath his body, the smell of gentle spices in the air, the ache of hunger in his gut. 

“Yeah,” Bruce tried before clearing his throat and opening his eyes. “Yeah, I’m with you. I don’t know what…” Bruce shot up then, still in his stolen, wretchedly filthy clothes, panic rising. “I didn’t...he didn’t come out, did he?”

Bucky shook his head quickly, setting a teacup down on the coffee table next to the couch where Bruce had been laying. A bowl was set next to it, filled with something steaming and delicious smelling, and Bruce was distracted for a moment by his need for fuel. 

“No. You just had a good, old fashioned fainting spell in the elevator. A modern day damsel in distress moment,” Bucky said dryly. “Thought you came back just to make me watch you die in a damn elevator. It was all quite dramatic.”

Against all odds, Bruce found his lips turning upward in the corners. He hadn’t smiled in what felt like decades, and it felt foreign on his face. His beard and mustache itched when he did it. 

“That would have been a good party trick, seeing as this body won’t let go of me,” Bruce said, and it came out softer than he had wanted it to, the words tinged with betrayal. 

Bucky visibly winced before kneeling on his knees next to the table. For the first time since he had come to, Bruce took a glance at his surroundings. Ah. Bucky’s apartment, then. It remained sparsely furnished and wide open, how Bucky claimed to like it. Bruce had always suspected that it was less an aesthetic comfort rather than a mental comfort. Fewer nooks and crannies to hide in when there’s nothing blocking the view. 

“I made you some of that tea you like, the kind you always had in your place. The food’s not much, just noodles and vegetable broth with that croissant thing there. No meat, cross my heart.” Bucky paused for a moment, eyes flitting over Bruce where he was folded in on himself in the middle of Bucky’s couch. “You look like you could use a good feast or twelve, pal, but I don’t want you to go overboard and get sick.”

“No,” Bruce said, shaking his head. “No, Bucky, this is...perfect. It smells perfect, thank you. It’s more than I des-”

“Uh uh. That’s enough of that horseshit. You said your sorries, didn’t even need to, to tell the truth. Now stop and eat your damn soup.”

Bruce’s head snapped up, meeting Bucky’s eyes head on, taken aback by the graveness of Bucky’s voice. It sounded like what Bruce always imagined Bucky’s Sergeant voice likely sounded like, and it was the first time Bruce had ever heard it. 

“Dammit,” Bucky sighed, leaning back until his ass hit the floor, crossing his legs as he rubbed his flesh hand over his face. “I didn’t mean to sound like an asshole Bruce. It’s just that, it’s just. I know what it’s like to have all that guilt hangin’ over your head like a damn annoying cloud, and for something that you didn’t even mean to do. In your case, you really didn’t even do it. So I’d rather just put it behind us if we can. Shit happens. Wasn’t the first time it happened to either one of us, and you know damn well it won’t be the last.”

Bruce hung on to Bucky’s every word, feeling more settled and less like crawling out of his skin with every syllable. Something twinged in his chest midway, and as soon as Bucky stopped talking, Bruce leaned forward and picked up the soup spoon, which felt like it weighed a ton and a half in his hand. He blew on the hot liquid and opened his mouth, letting the broth dribble over his tongue and down his throat, hot and flavorful. 

He could have cried with the sensation. Rather, he took his time, taking slow bites and small sips of his cup of tea (far weaker than he’d have made it himself, but tasting better than he could have imagined, the comfort of Bucky’s intended kindness and care soaking through him from the inside out with every drink). Bucky didn’t speak a word throughout the process, simply watched Bruce consume his meal, a hopeful and gracious expression on his face. More hair had escaped from his hair tie, and more than he wanted food, water or shelter, Bruce wanted to lean forward and tuck it behind Bucky’s ear. 

“You really didn’t even do any of it either, Bucky,” Bruce said once his cup was drained and his bowl set empty. He watched Bucky’s brows crease in confusion. “You said in my case, I didn’t even do that,” Bruce motioned toward Bucky’s arm, “to you. In your case, too. Neither of us made the choices. They were made for us by someone else, and yet we bear the burden.”

Bucky’s eyebrows smoothed out in understanding and he softened. He parted his lips a few times, in search of what to say, before choosing to clear his throat and stand in order to collect Bruce’s dishes. 

“10-4, Bruce. I’m gonna toss these in the dishwasher and then we’re going to get you cleaned up.” Bucky disappeared around the corner, into the kitchen, before Bruce could ask (or protest). 

“After all, I got the biggest tub in the Tower and you’re stinkin’ up my living room,” Bucky called out, and Bruce let out a surprised bark of laughter.

*

In the kitchen, having set the teacup and bowl in the sink, Bucky gripped the counter tightly, his heart expanding in his chest at the sound of Bruce laughing from the next room. 

_Bruce was home._


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading!
> 
> Have some incredibly soft, sappy boys.
> 
> Much love.

Bruce wasn’t surprised when Bucky followed him silently into the bathroom within the apartment. If he were being honest with himself, Bruce was relieved at the prospect of having Bucky there with him, for reasons other than feeling as though he could black out again at any given moment. 

The other reasons involving the pure, sweet comfort of not being _alone,_ and also having Bucky as the one running his bathwater, checking and rechecking the temperature as steam filled the room and Bruce unashamedly started to disrobe. When the tub was filled and Bucky turned around, his eyes wandered over Bruce’s body and his eyes grew more and more concerned. 

“Christ. Were you trying to starve yourself?” Bucky asked bluntly. Bruce found that he didn’t really know the answer himself, and so he didn’t answer. He took a step forward and swayed a bit on his feet as he tried to wrap his arms around himself, suddenly self-conscious for an entirely different reason than he had experienced before. His fingers danced along the ridges of his ribcage, sharp and glaringly on display. 

“Hey, okay. ‘M sorry, that was...rude,” Bucky said, keeping his eyes level with Bruce’s. “C’mon, let me help you in?”

Bruce let Bucky guide him to the bathtub and yeah, it must have been special ordered. It was the size of a jacuzzi, black marble with silver swirls. The water was so clean and clear that Bruce could see the no-slip ridges on the very bottom and the steam that rose from the surface called out to him. Tears prickled his eyes and they welled; Bucky had to have noticed but kept entirely quiet. 

The water was hot, how Bruce always liked it given the ability of heat to soothe his sore muscles and aching bones after a long day leaning over lab equipment or brutalizing nemesis as the Hulk. In his mind, he knew that Bucky wouldn’t have allowed the water to become hot enough to burn him, but it felt scorching to his still freezing skin and Bruce shuddered as he stepped fully into the tub, the water nearly coming to his knees. 

“Hot...I need to adjust,” Bruce said apologetically, a hand latching onto Bucky’s flesh forearm for support. Bucky nodded.

“Yeah, of course. Dumb of me, I shoulda made it cool. You just looked like you needed warming up.” And Bucky moved his hand then, the prosthetic, using it to cover Bruce’s hand where it rested. The prosthetic felt warm, just as warm as the skin beneath Bruce’s fingers. After a beat Bucky squeezed lightly and stepped away, turning to grab a loofah and soap from the counter. 

Both of them hesitated then, Bruce standing in the tub and Bucky standing just on the other side, supplies in hand. Bucky’s eyes didn’t waver from Bruce’s.

“Okay, uh. I know you’re a fully capable fella, a grown ass man and all that, but I’d be willing to help you scrub up because you’re gonna feel a lot better if you get off some of that grime, Bruce, I promise.” Bruce’s eyes fell to Bucky’s hand, which was squeezing and releasing pressure on the loofah as he spoke. A nervous tic. 

“Do you want to?” Bruce inquired, and he didn’t quite know where the question had come from but he did know that it was an important one. 

Bucky’s cheeks pinkened. “Want to…”

“Help me. With this.” Bruce’s voice was finding traction, stronger and unwavering. 

Bucky swallowed. “Yeah. I would like that.”

Bruce nodded and his heart quickened within his chest. _I’ve imagined this moment with you,_ he wanted to whisper, wanted Bucky to know. _Though the circumstances were always extremely different than what they are now._

“Thank you,” Bruce said, and Bucky breathed. 

*

Bucky started at Bruce’s feet. 

It took a little bit of effort to maneuver himself into a sitting position on the edge of the tub in such a way that he could reach the bottom by leaning forward. It would have been incredibly easy to join Bruce where he stood in the water, but it was wrong. It was all wrong. When Bucky spent hours daydreaming of running his hands over Bruce’s compact body, he had never imagined that he would be able to visibly outline Bruce’s ribs and hip bones like he could at that moment. 

And so he leaned.

The water became clouded quickly as Bucky used the sponge on Bruce’s feet and calves, using smooth and circular actions to rid the dirt and sweat as efficiently as possible. Bruce was stock still until Bucky reached his knees; a soft inhalation as Bucky applied the soapy sponge to the back of Bruce’s knee caused Bucky pause. 

“Sorry. Tickles,” Bruce murmured, shooting Bucky a small smile from where he was watching from above. Bucky’s chest tightened, his heart and lungs in a tourniquet. Fuck, he had missed that smile like air. 

Bucky was determined to not draw any attention to the fact that he was quickly approaching Bruce’s ass and groin, even with the anxiety building in his chest. Thank the fucking stars that Bruce opened his mouth as Bucky washed his outer thigh. 

“I think I can sit down now, if that’s alright. I don’t feel so cold anymore.”

Bucky leaned back and straightened his spine in the process, his prosthetic pinching where it met the bottom of the socket on his side. He hissed before he could stop himself; for a moment, Bucky thought that Bruce must have missed it, as nothing was said as Bruce lowered himself into a relaxed position in the water. 

“You good for me to keep…?” Bucky asked. 

Bruce nodded and closed his eyes. Bucky leaned down and gently cleaned around Bruce’s pubic area, trying like hell to ignore the beginnings of an erection as he did so. Bruce was concentrating on breathing in and out slowly through his nose, eyes squeezed shut. 

“I’m sor-”

“Don’t be,” Bucky murmured, bringing his hand out of the water to apply more soap to the loofah. “I can’t imagine how nice being warm, and getting clean and fed must feel. It’s bound to happen.” He took care around Bruce’s stomach region, his hand coming out of the water to scrub away at Bruce’s chest. The bubbles became gray where they foamed in Bruce’s chest hair and the sight caused a wave of sadness to trickle down Bucky’s throat. 

“Yes,” Bruce said slowly, drawing out the word. “It all feels...nice. But it’s.” Bruce opened his eyes, raising a hand out of the water and wrapping it around Bucky’s wrist. “It’s also you.”

Overwhelmed. Bucky was overwhelmed, the exhaustion, relief, sadness, attraction, heartache, joy, and disbelief at the oddity of the timing of this conversation ( _finallyfinallyfinally_ ) hitting him full force. It escaped him by means of a smile.

“Yeah? Well. I’ll be sure to file that away under one of the best things I’ve ever heard,” Bucky managed, feeling bereft as Bruce’s hand dropped his hold. Bucky dipped the sponge into the water and used the back of his hand to tilt Bruce’s head back so that he could get to his throat, the bits that weren’t covered by his beard at least. “Also, if the circumstances were a bit different, I’d be gettin’ awfully carried away with you, myself.”

Bruce’s eyes widened ever so slightly, and he was so beautiful in his surprise.

*

When Bruce looked down at his body after toweling off from his bath, his skin was clear and pink. He felt as though much of the weight of the last four months had been washed away down the drain, and he was almost sad to cover such reborn, clean flesh with the pair of flannel pants and a soft cotton t-shirt that he recognized as his own when Bucky handed them over. 

“Feel better?” Bucky asked, letting loose his hair before pulling it back up again, tighter than before. Bruce nodded. 

“Best I’ve felt in a long while, Buck. Thank you.” 

They stood in the bathroom still, the door open and the overhead fan having cleared out the steam quickly. Bruce finished drying his hair after he was dressed, using the crisp white towel to brutalize his beard in the process. He was debating on if it could wait until after he had slept for a day or two (or five), and whether or not Bucky would think him selfish if he asked for another favor. 

In conclusion, the itchiness of the beard shoved Bruce in the direction of selfishness. 

“Do you have scissors?” Bruce blurted suddenly. Bucky cocked his head. “And a razor?” Bruce continued. 

Bucky nodded and motioned toward the toilet seat. “Yeah. I was wonderin’ if you were plannin’ on keeping it or not,” Bucky said, opening a drawer beneath the sink. “Can’t say I’m disappointed that you want it gone. You look just fine, but. I feel like I haven’t seen all of you come back, not really.” Bucky stepped forward and draped a towel over Bruce’s front. “That make sense?”

It only made sense to Bruce if Bucky had missed him as much as he himself had been missing Bucky. Bruce’s heart thumped painfully in his chest. Painfully, but oh so sweetly. 

“It does,” Bruce said, reaching up from where he sat to tuck a strand of hair behind Bucky’s ear. Bucky looked pleased as pie, and Bruce felt more alive than he had in…

...well. In much longer than just these last few months. 

It went unsaid and assumed that Bucky would be the one to fix Bruce’s face, and he worked with speed and efficiency that was, frankly, impressive. Bruce felt more and more of his jaw being exposed to the air as Bucky cut away the length of his beard, and it didn’t escape his notice that he was trusting a former HYDRA controlled super soldier access to his throat with a pair of scissors. 

Hulk remained quiet, even the slightest hint of fear or discomfort absent. 

“You want it gone? All smooth?” Bucky asked, setting down the scissors and replacing them with the electric razor. Bruce nodded and leaned his head back, allowing Bucky to spray his throat and jaw with something that smelled masculine and tangy before the buzzing of the clippers filled the air. 

Bruce watched Bucky the whole time as he shaved him. There were creases in the corners of Bucky’s eyes, but only just. His youth had remained intact in such a way that none of them had truly figured out his aging speed just yet. Bruce was aware of how aged he must look in that moment, frail and weakened, his body easily 15 years older than Bucky’s. 

But Bucky treated his battered body with reverence, his touches firm but gentle as he moved Bruce’s face up and down, side to side, the clippers now gliding freely with no resistance. It was just at the very end when Bucky was nearly finished when Bruce noticed a speedy and harsh wince contort Bucky’s face as he switched hands to his prosthetic. 

Bruce stopped breathing, guilt and pain anew blooming within him. 

“Does it hurt like that all the time?”

They were the first words either of them spoke, Bruce asking the moment the buzzing fell silent. Bucky didn’t answer at first, taking his time to clean the clippers and dump the curly remains of Bruce’s beard into the trash. 

“Only sometimes. Only if I move wrong. It’s taken some time to adjust, but it has plenty of good shit that the others didn’t.” Bucky’s response was thought out and slow and if Bruce had more energy he would have challenged the hell out of it. He started to, actually, but Bucky beat him to it. 

“You want your hair cut a bit too, before you get some rest?”

Bruce nodded on autopilot. 

“Figured,” Bucky said, picking up the scissors once more. “If you get too tired, you let me know?”

Bruce nodded again, words he wanted to say sticking in his throat, and so he swallowed them instead. 

“Now, I’m no professional, but Stevie and I used to cut each other’s hair all the time and he never chewed me out for how I did. So no guarantees that you’ll look like a runway model, but I shouldn’t fuck it up too bad,” Bucky murmured calmly, using his hands to pull at Bruce’s hair, testing the length before allowing the strands to spring back up into their curls. “I’ll be damned. You straighten this all out, your hair would probably be almost as long as mine.”

Bruce laughed quietly. “Well, we can’t have that. You can pull it off. Me? It’s a little too rock and roll for someone like me.”

Bucky let out an amused huff, running his fingers through Bruce’s hair. Bruce bit back a moan at the sensation of Bucky’s fingernails on his scalp. Human contact, which he tried so avidly to avoid, coming from Bucky Barnes was a fucking _revelation_. 

“Whaddya talkin’ about? You’re plenty rock and roll. Especially when you’ve got on your lab coat, the long white ditty? And your glasses to boot,” Bucky teased, the snipping sound of the scissors starting close to Bruce’s left ear. 

“Oh, sure. I’d be the rage with all the kids,” Bruce bit back dryly, and Bucky laughed fully at that. He nudged Bruce’s knees apart with his own and stepped forward to stand between them, using his hands to request that Bruce tilt his head forward. Bruce complied and leaned until the top of his head was resting against Bucky’s abdomen, warm and firm and alive. 

Bucky cut the back of his hair before dropping to his knees, becoming level with Bruce’s face. Bruce responded by yawning, his freshly shaven skin feeling stretched and stinging with the action. 

“You’re nearly finished, sweetheart,” Bucky promised. “Just gotta get the very front and then we’ll get you into bed.”

Bruce responded with a few long blinks before leaning forward. 

*

Bruce’s lips were chapped, but they were warm and soft regardless. 

It was the lightest kiss Bucky had ever experienced, chaste and over in half a heartbeat, and yet. 

And yet lightening zinged through his body from his head to his toes. His toes, which curled up in pleased surprise. Bucky felt his mouth drop open a bit and he stared into Bruce’s eyes, those pretty orbs that were starting to regain a bit of their sparkle. 

Bucky didn’t know what to do or what to say, but Bruce looked somehow both calm and nervous, and so Bucky leaned in for a second kiss, this one longer and _closer_. Bruce sighed into Bucky’s mouth, something that sounded a lot like “James,” and Bucky’s world shook and settled.

*

When Bucky was finished cutting Bruce’s hair and cleaning up the bathroom, Bruce followed him down the hall like a puppy. Bruce didn’t have the energy to care, didn’t have the strength to question it when Bucky led Bruce into his room. Bucky had Bruce in his bed and between the sheets in seconds flat and when Bucky hit the lights, Bruce felt himself slipping into sleep quickly and steadily. The only thing that pulled him out of it was the sound of Bucky walking back across the room. 

“Where ‘re you going?” Bruce whispered into the dark, struggling with the words as he fought for consciousness. 

“I’ll take the couch. It’s more comfortable than the guest bed,” Bucky whispered back, and Bruce sighed, annoyed and just wanting to _sleep_. 

“I get it. You grew up with Steve. Chivalry isn’t dead and all that, you’re a proper gentleman. Now would you please get into this goddamn bed?”

Silence. And then the padding of Bucky’s footsteps, and the feeling of the other side of the bed dipping with Bucky’s weight. Bruce rolled over to him like a magnet and Bucky moved like they were dancers, fitting Bruce into his side and draping his arm over Bruce’s back fluidly. 

“You’re warm,” Bruce said into Bucky’s chest, comforted by the small circles being drawn by Bucky’s fingertips into his skin. 

“And you’re here,” was Bucky’s reply, the last thing that Bruce heard before sleep drew him under, the awe and visceral happiness in his words a lullaby. 

Just as he had done every night for the last four months, Bruce dreamed of Bucky.


End file.
